Page 49 of Wicked Roses
I shove aside that thought and pretend I’m a civilized guy with an ounce of decorum. I’ve pushed the furniture in the loft’s living room against the walls, opening up the center for us to practice.
Delphine stands in the middle, uncertainty on her face, only slightly more confident than previous sessions. She does great on the basic stuff—forward-facing moves where she has to strike me in the face or knee me in the groin. It’s the moment I come up from behind, or even from the side that she’s thrown off.
We’ve been practicing for almost two weeks now. Each time she gets a little better, though the nerves don’t seem to be going anywhere.
“Are you ready? We’re going to do what we practiced.”
She inhales a rocky breath and then nods. “When are you going to do it?”
“That’s part of the element of surprise, Phi.”
I disappear from the room and she puts in her AirPods.
I’m no expert instructor at teaching defensive maneuvers, but I’ve been fighting as long as I can remember. From the time I was a runt kid and got picked on both at home and at school. The shitheads at school were manageable; as soon as I fought back and went psycho on them, they learned to back off from me. Home was the real challenge; what do you do when a two-hundred-and-seventy-pound bull charges toward you with fists raised, ready to beat the shit out of you?
You have no other choice but to learn to fight. Learn how to defend yourself against what seems like insurmountable odds.
I developed my taste for violence thanks to those early experiences black and blue, spilling my own blood. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about physical confrontations it’s that you’ve got to be ready. You’ve got to keep your cool and be smart.
Never panic.
Delphine’s at a disadvantage should any asshole attack her from behind, but she’s naturally a sharp and quick-thinking woman. She’s just got to forget the panic and learn to apply that same fast-on-her-feet mindset she has in the courtroom to any altercations on the street.
Not that I ever intend on letting her go without security ever again—but just in case.
Eight minutes have passed before I do it. She’s waiting, Airpods in her ears, when I sneak up from behind and entrap her in my arms. My grip’s tight and sudden, forcing her body up against mine in a jarring, aggressive fashion. I can’t go easy on her; the asshole who attacked her didn’t. None of them would.
The moment she’s stuck in my arms, she produces a noise that’s a mix between a growl and a gasp. She hesitates only a second longer before she seems to remember what I’ve taught her. She shifts her body to the side and attempts to land an open-palmed strike to my groin.
What she doesn’t expect is me blocking her. I anticipate her move and push her hand out of the way with my knee.
As my grip tightens around her middle, the panic takes over. Her breathing turns erratic, the sounds she makes are desperate grunt noises as she twists in my arms, struggling for freedom. I’ve told her a dozen times this type of struggling actually makes the situation worse, but the panic is a lot louder than my advice.
I’m about to let her go so we can review where she went wrong when she throws her head back and her skull collides with the lower half of my face. It’s an angle that admittedly does enough damage to get me to release her.
Immediate and sharp pain reverberates throughout my jaw and nose. It’s as good as any direct punch. I step back and wipe my nose, my fingers stained with blood.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my god, Jon! I’m so sorry! I panicked and I didn’t think. I just threw my head back. That’s a lot of blood. I’ll get you a towel—”
I grab her arm and hold her back. “You think I’m worried about a little blood? Nothing’s broken. Calm down. You did good.”
“I did?”
“You’ve got me bleeding, don’t you? You fucked me up. What else is that but good?”
The smile that almost touches her lips is surprised. “But that’s not what we practiced.”
“Sometimes you have to think on your feet. I underestimated you. You proved me wrong—just remember to keep your cool. What have I told you?”
“Search for my opening.”
I nod, reaching out with my clean hand to give her shoulder a squeeze. “That’s right. I’m proud of you, Phi. Want to go practice firing?”
She nods but then disappears down the hall. “Not before I clean you up!”
I insist I’m fine, though it’s useless. She reappears a couple seconds later with a damp face towel and urges me to sit down so she can clean the blood off me and take a look at how damaged my nose is. I’ve never given a fuck about any injuries I sustain. Both my jaw and nose still throb, but it’s manageable.
Out of the dozens of fights I’ve been in, it’s nothing. A small drop in the ocean.